Who Controls Our Legacy? How Do We Shape It?

Photo of the author’s parents’ tombstone courtesy of the author.

Photo courtesy of the author.

Writing about a funeral might not be an upbeat way to start an article, but a recent experience got me thinking about what our lives truly mean.

I attended the funeral of a close relative we all called “Tony,” who was 98 years young. People said all of the heartfelt yet conventional things: He was blessed with such a long life; he had many years with his wonderful wife; he raised four beautiful children; he lived to see five grandchildren grow up and even met several great-grandchildren. He had his mind 100 percent till the very end.

It was all true. His time serving in the US Navy brought him great pride and he relished talking about it. More than anything else, he spent his life caring for his family and he was deeply loved. He will truly be missed.

Before the funeral, the clergy gave the family members what he called homework: to think of one word to describe their father/grandfather/ great grandfather/father-in-law. At the funeral, they all shared their chosen word, including devoted, loving, inspirational, funny, diverse, talented and caring.

All the family members chose the word that best described their connection to him. It made me think about what I would like said about me when it is my time to “relocate,” hopefully, to heaven. What one word or aspect of who I am would resonate with my family, friends and colleagues? Who knows me, deeply and truly?

What would I want my defining legacy to be? That is something to think about especially as we grow older.

I wonder: “Who will make the holiday dinners when I can’t anymore?” or “Who can I give my ‘Debby recipes’ to?” (Will anyone want them?)

One of my favorite mantras is “Perception is reality,” which, to me, means that different people in our lives might very well choose different words to describe us. And we might not agree with some of them. What can we do about that, if anything? Should we record details of how we lived our lives? Should we share our own perceptions of who we are?

These questions have led me to think about those people who’ve had the greatest impact in my life. What words would I choose to truly capture who they were. So, I started with my mom.

Born in the Bronx to two American-born parents, my mom (whose name was Lenore) had many family responsibilities from the very beginning. She grew up fast, working every day after school side-by-side with her father at their fruit and vegetable stand at the Fulton Fish Market.

She loved to tell us the story about her sixth-grade teacher who gave her a string of pearls as a graduation present, saying, “Having you for a student was one of the greatest joys of my life.” Putting it mildly, Mom was one of a kind, a Virgo with extremely specific values and distinct ideas of right and wrong.

Some said she was a black and white thinker for whom shades of gray did not exist. On first impression, she either liked you or she didn’t. There would be no doubt about it and you would definitely know where you stood. Though she always told the truth, whether you wanted to hear it or not, her words were never mean-spirited, just honest–okay sometimes brutally honest. But her devotion to her family and friends was second to none.

As we celebrated the High Holidays this year, I recalled vivid memories of how Mom would prepare for the holidays. She would put out the “good dishes and glasses” and painstakingly prepare each family member’s favorite dishes. There would never be enough room on the table for all she had cooked.

I try to do the same, now focusing on gluten, dairy and nut allergies in the family, modifying recipes and labeling what is “safe” for whom. I like to think Mom would approve. After each holiday brunch or dinner my parents hosted over many years, they would say, “That’s one more in the book.”

Having taken over the holiday-making role for many years now, I find myself saying to my husband, “Thank G-d we could have one more holiday in the book.”

When my parents shared holiday meals at our home, I have a distinct image of my mother perched on the couch, after dinner and before dessert, summoning over various members of the family one at a time.

When you sat down with her, you never knew why you were a “chosen one.” Often, she gave life lessons or career advice. Sometimes, it was to give you a compliment about something you were doing well. And other times it was to point out in no uncertain terms what you could and should be doing better.

Mom was smart, colorful, at times hilarious and a true fashionista with bold taste, always putting forth her own style. Professionally, she could do anything. In her first real career, she managed a women’s clothing store for which she did all of the purchasing. She was a personal shopper long before that became a real phrase or job.

After many years in retail, working nights and weekends, she began her second career at a prominent insurance company at age 60, although she told her interviewers that she was only 50, figuring they would not hire someone older. She started in customer service, making eight dollars an hour and ultimately retired as a vice president of her division.

Mom was extremely modern in her taste and her views, but traditional in her values. When she and my dad got married, she adopted her maiden name as her legal middle name, always telling us that marriage should not end our individual identity. She would frequently remark that girls can be whatever they wanted to be in this world but should also know how to cook in order to be self-sufficient.

When the public outcry for women’s rights was raging in the 1960s and we would discuss issues around the kitchen table, Mom would say, “I don’t understand what all this noise is about women’s liberation. Why should women settle for being equal to men when we are clearly superior?”

Regarding age, she would tell us one’s age is no one’s business. When we kids were adults, she cautioned us never to share our age with anyone, because people should judge us by our deeds, not our age. She hid her own age from everyone, including us. She would always tell people she was 27.

As we grew old enough to prove the impossibility of that number, she would tell people, “My children are from my husband’s first marriage.” Mom was Dad’s first and only marriage!

If you dared to discuss her age in public or encourage her to “tell the truth,” she would shoot you a look that ended the conversation. So, when she passed, we continued to respect her wishes. On her headstone is her date of birth and the quote, “Forever 27.” Now that I am older, I see her point of view through a different lens.

Her family was her priority. She was also fiercely loyal and protective of her friends and close colleagues. She would move heaven and earth for just about anyone she thought needed her support.

When something was amiss in various situations, you could count on Lenore for solid advice. One day, a young coworker, Eileen, came to work crying because she had become pregnant with her steady boyfriend during a time when that was deemed unacceptable and even sinful. Her mother, a devout woman, had chastised her and threw her out of the house.

After trying to console her, Mom took it upon herself to speak to Eileen’s mother the very next day. She drove to her house and implored her mother to reconsider, citing some of her own parenting experiences to convince her to accept the situation that was far beyond her control.

Mom spoke of how important it was to show her daughter both love and support. Thankfully, it worked. Soon after, the couple got married and their family continued to grow. After Mom passed, we were going through her papers, cards and notes. We came across a letter from Eileen thanking her for intervening and helping to repair her mother/daughter relationship. Mom had never shared one word about that event with us. There are so many more such stories.

So how are we to know what will be remembered and what will be forgotten about each of us? My brother says often, “It amazes me how when someone who has been integral in the lives of their family members and others in the world, life just goes on without them once they die.”

So I wonder what we would want people to know, which stories would we hope they would repeat and what they would say about some of our life choices.

Our legacy will likely be reflected in the lives and choices of those who carry on after us. A close friend of mine, who recently retired, made writing her memoirs a top priority. She is encouraging her friends to do the same because she feels it’s important to be the storyteller of our own life experiences. That way, at the very least, our children and grandchildren may better understand who we really are. As for me, I wish to be judged by my deeds as well as my words. For each of us, that is truly our lasting legacy.

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Debby is a member of the Hadassah Writers’ Circle, a dynamic and diverse writing group for leaders and members to express their thoughts and feelings about all the things Hadassah does to make the world a better place, to celebrate their personal Hadassah journeys and to share their Jewish values, family traditions and interpretations of Jewish texts.  Since 2019, the Hadassah Writers’ Circle has published nearly 450 columns in the Times of Israel Blog and other Jewish media outlets. Interested? Please contact hwc@hadassah.org.